The Third Law
by Lizzy.Vernet
Summary: "For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction." Sherlock's apparent suicide and its repercussions.
1. Chapter 1

Hello!

This is the first chapter of my Sherlock fanfic called "La Tercera Ley". I published it about two years ago in spanish and now it's available in english due to the requirements of my friend Ingrid Moriarty and the amount of coincidences between the actual information we have from season 3 and this little piece of fiction.

Please, keep in mind that English is not my native language.

Anyway, read, enjoy and if you like please leave a comment.

**The Third Law**

After the death of my best friend, Sherlock Holmes, I felt as if I had to start everything in my life from scratch. However, in fact, I was going to start from far, far below.

During our time together he became my family, my work, my best friend and my only worry.

During that time, I didn't see myself in the need of working, not just because the money he could earn with just one of his cases exceeded any amount of money I could ever be able to gather by myself in months of hard work by far, but because I was more useful to him if I dedicated 100% of my time to assist him, to run through the city, accompany him across England, be wherever he didn't want to be and tell him what he had to say when he found himself in the dark and incomprehensive lands of human emotion.

That's why the single thought of going back to work in an ordinary medical practice terrified me.

Using my time in something not related with Sherlock Holmes was something to which I was not used anymore. It was a setback; a torture.

But I did it. I had to, just as I had to follow the advice of virtually everyone around me.

"Go on with your life, John", "Move out of that flat", "Get a nice woman, get married and live a happy life, mate, that's what he would have wanted."

But I know... I know that the last thing Sherlock would have wanted me to do is to have a boring life; not after everything we went through together.

He would have told me… I don't want to imagine, I want to see him. Good Lord, I need to see him so badly.

Of course this desire of mine is ridiculous. The closest I can be to Sherlock is during my weekly visit to the graveyard.

It's odd to know that he's going to be there every week. Something inside me thinks that one day I'll arrive and the grave is going to be open and empty.

Who knows, maybe he's going to go out and try to solve a mystery around here. That would be very like Sherlock and this place must be filled with strange deaths demanding a boring detective.

_- How are you, Sherlock?_

The same old question at the same old spot in the yard.

I don't have flowers for him; I never bring flowers. It's not my intention to turn his grave into a nice, colorful place.

Some weeks ago, Mycroft got the grave cleaned because some fans of Sherlock were covering it with letters and flowers and weird handmade plushies of Sherlock. I appreciate the sentiment, but it's better as it is now: black and cold and just mine.

But it's not at the cemetery, next to his grave, where I feel closer to him, but in St. Barts' rooftop.

I've been there three times: two of them with Lestrade (who barely looked at me in the eye during the whole affair) and once with Molly, tonight.

It's late and the familiar corners of the streets seem unrecognizable, but inside Barts, everything is familiar again. I go through the well-known hallways while making sure that no one sees me. I get to the roof.

The wind whirls around me and I zip up my jacket.

The first time I went here were just a couple of hours after Sherlock jumped. Someone opened the door for me and I stood there, staring at the spot where Sherlock had passed his last minutes in this world. I didn't dare to move, let alone approach the edge. I counted to 10 in order to calm myself but before 4, I was on my way out again.

The second time was 15 days after Sherlock had decided lying to me through the phone and making my life a living hell on Earth.

This time I managed to approach the edge of the roof and when I looked down, I saw him; the crushed body of my best friend, disfigured against the pavement and I saw… I saw myself, falling toward him.

I have that dream every night.

This time my self control is working just fine, so far.

I'm not crying, I'm not feeling this everlasting anguish in the mouth of the stomach, I'm not having visions and my pulse is steady as expected from a soldier. This time I'm not here to investigate, out of curiosity or because someone asked me to. I'm here because I'm going to put a stop to all of this, finally.

I moved slowly to the edge of the roof. Everything was silent and so very dark.

No one is going to notice if I do it, right? Not until morning, at least, and by then it's going to be too late. This is a good way to solve everything and I'll be dead before the arrival of the paramedics, even before someone could ask for help. I'll be ahead of them for a couple of hours… just like Sherlock is ahead of me for a couple of months.

I thought about him for a moment - well, I haven't stopped thinking about him since the first day and I never will. I looked at the dark horizon but everything I saw were buildings and clouds and although it's a beautiful sight, I can't appreciate it anymore; something inside me simply stopped functioning. The wind began to blow harder and I was bloody high up.

_- Were you scared? If I have had been there… If I could've reached you… I'm sure you wouldn't have done it…_

I'm now where he was that day, standing on that thin line made of bricks.

What was going through your head? You weren't okay; you were crying… you never cry… you were lying to me, was that why you were crying? Or because you knew you were going to die? Why did you do this, Sherlock? Commit suicide? That's not something you'd do. Why did you call me? Why didn't you just text me? Did you want me to see you? Did you need me to see you? Why did you torture me in that way before…before...

I opened my arms and closed my eyes.

I need to know what you felt.

There were no more tears, there was nothing else to be said except:

_- Sherlock…_

_- John?_

A voice, but not his voice.

_- Molly…_

I opened my eyes and turn slowly.

_- John, I thought you were… what are you doing here?_

_- I'm having a moment._

I replied, staring at her. I went down and I pass next to her in my way out.

_- Do you have a lot of moments like this?_

Of course not, I have had just one moment like that- just one that had started with Sherlock saying goodbye to me to which I had pretended to put an end that night.

_- You have nothing to worry about, Molly… If I would have wanted to kill myself I would have done it already._

She doesn't believe me and I can't blame her. We both know I'm lying.

_- Do you need help? John, if I can…_

_- You can't._

I reply, dryly.

_- I'm sorry… that was very rude…_

_- It's okay, you're having a hard time now. I understand._

_- Of course you do. Look, I have to go now._

When I was at the door Molly spoke again but I didn't stop walking.

_- I do believe in him…_

I didn't stop because I didn't know what to say. What was I supposed to say? Thank you? I was the only one who stood by Sherlock's side at the end and I couldn't make any differences. Despite the effort and the regret, everyone else are just traitors.

I learnt lots of things while I was living with Sherlock. Mainly to develop my patience to unthinkable limits, but one of the things I learnt almost unconciously was to pay the deserved attention to small details. Everything a person says or does has a reason. Sherlock has told that me once. I heard his voice whispering to me from the past.

"I referred to her husband in the past tense..."

That's why when Molly referred to Sherlock in present tense, I felt that something wasn't completely alright. But then again, I myself still refer to him in the present tense.

Stop trying to believe in a miraculous salvation, John, stop.

But - I thought- what does it matter what happens tonight or the previous nights? In the end, everything will reach a final point and I'll be free of all doubts. There will be no more late afternoon walks feeling that someone is following me (probably a reminiscence from the times with Mycroft following my every move) no more faking good moods and smiles with my therapist, no more faking happy faces to Mrs. Hudson or avoiding the insistent calls of Lestrade and Molly, enough of constantly see his silhouette every time I walk pass Baker Street, enough of not being able to go back to the flat to get my stuff because everything he owned is going to be there... everything but him.

When a person dies, not only do they leave behind a life of belongings, they also leave behind their beliefs but If you have none, like Sherlock, whose only faith resided in whatever he could see and prove, you leave behind not things, but people, people who believed in you, people whom you leave your impression, good, bad, painful, crazy, amazing impressions.

In his case, he left me.

The violin, the chemical equipment, the sofa- those are just things. But the sensation of having a part of him living inside of me is almost too big to bear.

How would one speak about the past and get rid of the memories when you have the constant feeling that, one day, he's going to step into the flat covered in pig's blood? Or with five nicotine patches on each arm and one on his forehead?

When I said that I was going to have to start from far below, I mean it… I really do.

I have nowhere to stay and I really don't have anywhere to go.

I stayed with Harry for a couple of weeks, but I had to get out of there. I believe I mentioned this before; we love each other but we really don't get along well. Even Sarah contacted me and she offered me to stay at her place and Mycroft expressed the possibility of paying for a hotel while I find a definite place to stay but I turned down every offer. I needed to get out of this depression on my own terms, in my own time.

Nobody knows where I'm staying now.

It's a place far from everything that I knew during my time with Sherlock because it didn't matter where I was. I could always see him clear as day; sitting at a table or opening an unknown backdoor, running through the streets, following someone, under a bridge with his homeless network, gathering information and handing out money in exchange for the most lurid and gruesome details of the latest case in the London's criminal underground.

Every single place, every single face in this city reminds me of him. There's no hidden corner or dark hallway that I haven't gone through with Sherlock.

I head now, to the darkest, highest and most solitary place I could find by myself.

Not even the homeless network with all its branches and eyes and ears could find me here.

I walked into the abandoned factory and climb a rusty iron ladder until I reach a small improvised platform with a flimsy floor just about to fall apart due to the years of lack of maintenance.

The silence is almost unbearable. A thin layer of dust and filth covers everything.

_- I asked you not to be dead…_

My voice startled even myself. This time Molly is not going to interrupt me. No one will come to stop poor old doctor Watson. It's just me and a fall of seven floors.

- _But you are… of course you are…_

I lean against the railing and I put a foot over it.

_- Fractured skull and neck, three broken ribs, one of them stuck in a lung… contusion on his right wrist, left knee dislocated, ruptured eardrums, broken index and ring fingers of the right hand. Pinky, index, ring and middle of the right hand, dislocated left shoulder, broken collarbone in three parts, femur fracture ..._

As I was stepping on the railing, I was repeating to myself the autopsy report. I asked for it from Lestrade and he sent it to me by fax. I always knew he didn't want to see me. He didn't have the guts to face me after what he did to Sherlock.

_- Internal Organs: a lung pierced by a rib, stomach full of blood, busted heart, brain ... your brain… I asked you not to be dead… Sherlock…_

I repeated to the emptiness of the night, to the wind, to the slightly spicy scent in the air, to my tears.

I have this endless feeling of being out of time, as if my brain was still in denial despite of having seen him falling. It's as if Sherlock was captive somewhere, unable to escape.

I have a recurring dream in which someone covers his mouth and won't let him speak to me.

Some days I wake up and I know he's dead and that I need to get on with my life.

Some days I can even pay a visit to Mrs. Hudson and have tea and laugh and talk.

Some days I wish I hadn't thrown my gun to the Thames.

Some days I can't breathe. I look at the spot next to me in my bed even when he was never there and he never lived with me in this flat and his absence is so great that it physically hurts.

But there isn't all the things we weren't and all the things we didn't do together the reason why I want to put a stop to all of this.

It's the fact- that horrible, terrible fact- that I never told him that my life was so much better because he was in it. That my world was black and white until he came in and then there was color. That I was happy; so happy when he was with me as I can't and I don't want to be again.

And now he's gone.

And he will never know.

I opened my arms and I look straight in front of me, ready to let the gravity fix everything when all of a sudden, a shiny light blinded me for a second.

It's blinking.

Light... nothing… light, light… nothing…

I stared at the strange light for a moment with my brain running in automatic.

U.M.Q.R.A.

It means nothing to me; it means nothing to anyone.

In my last minutes on this Earth, I scolded myself for still daring to believe in a secret message, in a fake death, in miracles, in heroes.

I look down and my body leans toward the emptiness of the abyss.

And then...

_- Wait a minute._

The rush of adrenaline made me slip and I almost fell. It can't be.

I almost break my neck against a metal door while running down and out of the building.

U.M.Q.R.A. Who else knows it? No one, nobody else, Sherlock, just Sherlock… please, Sherlock, this can't be a coincidence, there's no such thing as coincidences... I asked you not to be dead…

When I arrived to the building, ten minutes later, I didn't find the blinking light or any sign indicating that someone had been there, just a small pile of ashes.

A thorough search of the building was futile. No one else was there, just me.

_- Sherlock!_

I shouted to the darkness, to the abandoned machinery, to my own frustration. Whoever made that light shine for me that night was long gone.

I went back to my flat.

Two unsuccessful suicide attempts were more than enough to grasp that life was trying to tell me that tonight wasn't the best night to leave this planet and that bloody morse code had confused me even more.

I haven't rested in three days so as soon as I opened the door, I threw myself on the bed and I fell asleep.

This is the story of why I couldn't go with you tonight.

I know you must be really bored up there; just wait for me... I'll fix that soon.

I'm sorry.

I miss you.

John H. Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello everyone! Thank you for reading despite the fact that we already have season three and asdjhgahjgdjajhasd wedding... okay... too soon.

Anyway, thank you again and, please enjoy the reading.

* * *

**The Third Law**

**Chapter Two**

Two and a half years later

Sometimes there was too much noise around John and he wasn't able to think clearly.

That's why he liked the waiting room of the hospital where he was currently working. All the conversations, the complains and the cries of the babies, helped him to clear his thoughts and gave him long instants of unconsciousness in which he was only concerned about keep breathing and drink his coffee.

He had got that job thanks to Molly, the only one of the old friends with whom he chose to keep in touch even if it was just because she called him once a week, every week.

Thanks to that job he had met Mary, a young and petite woman with a soft round face, big green eyes and blond hair. She was the embodiment of everything he never liked in a woman but now, for some reason, all those details about her were somehow comforting.

She was a nursery school teacher in a small school near the hospital. They met while John was stitching the forehead of a five years old toddler who had been daring enough to jump from the swing to the sand box. (He failed, but that wasn't importan, if you ask him.)

Mary was smart and nice, and kind, and good with kids, but John had passed the last few weeks trying to identify what exactly he liked about her, beyond all that.

He couldn't reach any conclusion.

It was the way she used to giggle when they were talking? Her skin? The fact that she was the first woman that seemed interested in him after a long time and the only woman who had had a real chance to know him?  
No, none of the above.

But thanks to Mary, John passed his first day without thinking about Sherlock and when he realized, he locked himself in his flat, cried for three hours straight and then he fell asleep.

John put the paper cup next to him in the bench and then he spent the next five minutes looking at the people passing by.

It was 7:20 in the morning, his shift had ended twenty minutes ago but he was still there, listening but not listening really. To leave his mind free and not elaborate any thought was a blessing.

Then Mary appeared at the door. She was wearing the blue dress John liked and her blonde hair was braided in a short, simple teacher-of-young-kids kind of style, practical and comfortable.

John didn't get up, he didn't even made a sign, he just enjoyed for a second the sight of Mary trying to find him in that crowded room, without succeeding. But Mary's eyes eventually found his and when that happened, she smiled.

And in that moment, in that noisy room filled with crying kids that were playing and shouting while their mothers were paying no attention to them, John finally realized why he liked Mary so much.

Because there was nothing of her that could ever reminded him of Sherlock.

And finally, he did the same thing that every single person in this world does when they end up a relationship and begin another: compare.

Although, instead of comparing Mary with his other girlfriends, he compared her with Sherlock.

Mary was smart indeed, but she wasn't Sherlock and his massive intellect.

Mary smiled every time she saw him, but that smile wasn't as satisfactory as Sherlock's smirk full of pride when John did something right.

Mary was kind but she wasn't Sherlock and his chronic need of ridicule the world.

They always chatted for hours on end and there was always something different in each conversation. But she wasn't Sherlock and his silent moments that were much more meaningful than his words.

The conversations with Mary were empty chatting, normal, something everyone could have with everyone else, about kids and work and trivial subjects going from the birth place to their favourite colours, music, etc. They never chatted about corpses or mysterious murders or criminal masterminds threatening their lives with complex deductions and games, made only from the way in which someone tied his shoelaces and wiped his mouth with the napkin.

Mary could rise his pulse when she was close, but Sherlock had stopped his heart by saying goodbye.

John tried not to think about all that. Comparisons are always odious and, deep down he knew that nothing in his future, nothing that his fate had prepared for him, could never compare to what he had lived with Sherlock and he had to accept it. The decision was made and the worst had passed.

The first horrible months after Sherlock's death had been overcome with relative success and he had gone back to a daily routine, just adding an extra burden of responsibilities that had kept him thinking about many other things, but not of his dead friend for most of the day.

The guilt and the anger that had dominated his life for so long in equal parts had remitted and now he felt empty. Not good, not bad, just empty.

John finally stood up and walked toward Mary.

_- Are you ready? You're not tired?_  
_- Not at all._

John had promised to help her to find a new flat, Mary had been having some troubles with her former landlady and, since he knew every single empty flat and house in London due to his old adventures looking for a place to live, after trying to throw himself from a rooftop, he offered her his help in the matter.

Luckily, he wouldn't be back at his flat until late at night.

Mary loved all the flats and all the houses. She was one of those people who look at the glass half full and goes through life thinking the best of everyone, but not in a naive way. She just chose to be like that: be kind and expect the best. But then John pointed something about the flat or the house that no one else had seen until then, and he took her to the next place.

_- What do you think? This is quite comfy and it's near the centre of the city…_  
_- Look at the roof. Do you see that spot? The one that looks clearer than the rest? Someone covered that spot with paster recently and they painted it with something similar to the old painting, but I assure you that there you'll have a wet spot that will make your life miserable…_

Next flat.

_- What about this one? It's well lit and…_  
_- The neighbor upstairs practices cello until four in the morning, you won't be able to sleep properly._  
_- How do you know?_  
_- I don't know, I noticed._  
_- What did you notice?_  
_- His fingers, Mary._

Next flat.

_- And this one?_  
_- The neighbour's kids are going to drive you crazy. Said John, loking at the marks of dirty fingers at waist height on the wall._  
_- I like kids._  
_- Fat and spoiled kids. Said John, ignoring that comment and shaking his head slowly._

Next flat.

_- Last address, 221 Baker Street._

John made no comment, he put his hands together and looked out the window while the cab drove them straight to that street where he had had so many suicidal thoughts the last time he was there.

Mrs. Hudson had promised him that she wasn't going to rent the flat for a while. Obviously it was a great effort for an old lady whose only income of money were the two for-rent flats at her disposal (one of which was more like a WW2 bunker than a proper flat) but no matter what, a part of John was hoping that Mrs Hudson would also like to leave everything as it was before, just to pretend.

But it wasn't the B flat the one for rent, it was the C. With the same moist ambience.

When Mrs. Hudson opened the door her eyes filled with tears and she ran to hug him. They hadn't seen each other in almost a year.

_- You know her?_  
Asked Mary while looking around.  
_- I lived here for a while._  
_- Then you could ask her to lower the price, eh?_ – joked mary, but John looked away, sadly. He couldn't ask something like that, when poor Mrs. Hudson was keeping alive Sherlock's memory by maintaining untouched a flat she could been renting.  
_- I couldn't ask that, it's a flat in a very good location… - he said, wincing._

Mary looked around the small flat and examined everything, just like John had told her to do.  
Mrs. Hudson approached to John and took his arm.

_- When are you going to come over for tea?_  
_- I've been busy, Mrs H. With work. I'm sorry, I'll come as soon as I have the time._  
_- Is everything okay?_  
_- Yes._

John lied quickly, he was getting more and more expert at lying.

_- She's pretty… and she likes you, I can tell._  
_- Has someone come? – obviously John was referring to his former flat and not to 221C_  
_- Mycroft, a few weeks ago. But he didn't even say hello, he took a couple of things and left in a hurry._  
_- How's he? How's he doing?_  
_- Chubby, losing a brother is not easy._  
_- Mmm... May I ask you a favor?_

John looked at his shoes.

_- Of course._  
_- Could you… could you add a couple of zeros to the price? I really don't want to come here every time I want to visit Mary…_

Of course it was an unfair requirement and John knew it. Mrs. Hudson needed the money.

_- Alright. After all, Mycroft still pays for the flat._  
_- I'd imagined something like that…_

The adorable old lady put a finger on her lips and smiled, then she went to speak with Mary.

* * *

_- She's crazy! No one is going to pay that much for a flat like that! – said Mary once they were outside._  
_- Yes… I think the years are taking their toll…_  
_- I'll just continue with my flatmate for now._  
_- I think that would be the best… fancy a coffee?_

After the incident with the flats, John decided that being with Mary was good for him. She distracted him and gave him the perfect opportunity to come back, little by little, to the real world. To the world of people who breathe and work under the sun and who leave all the bad things behind, like the past and the pain.

"We all suffer about something" thought John "We all had lost someone and we all have to carry on with our lives, I know, I've been there before." How many of his comrades, of his soldier partners he had seen dying in the battle field and he continued because his life was at stake.

It was the same with Sherlock. Sherlock had been his war and the consequence of his loss was the horrible monotony of normality. A tragedy that, until that moment, he had to face all by himself. But now he had Mary and everything looked a bit better.

There was no point of comparison between them and that wasn't good nor bad.

With Mary he spent the quietest months of his life. Normal, peaceful and also the most boring months, but in a good way.

It reminded him of the life at his parent's house. The quiet afternoons, watching telly and playing stupid board games. He had left that life to enroll in the army (escaping, really, because, to that point, the arguments with Harry were almost uncontrollable) and then he had gone back to normal.

Then Sherlock.

Then Mary.

John could almost draw a line along his life and label the different stages.

* * *

During those days, it was the second anniversary of Sherlock's death and John had a date with Mary.

He got up early in the morning and went to the cemetery. He stood in front of Sherlock's grave for a couple of hours, as always, just talking from time to time and then he left.

He put next to the grave the flowers he had bought for Mary

Their relationship had progressed more than John had thought it could in such short period of time, so only a few months had passed since the formalization of their going-out state, they rented a flat together (a lot closer to Baker Street than he had thought he was going to be able to bear) and started to share a life.

In a couple of weeks John started doing things he hadn't done in a long time, like visiting Mrs. Hudson for instance, and call Molly (the poor girl almost cried when he said hello) and other things he had never done before, like buying curtains and furniture and begin to build a "home".

But there was something familiar in all that "living with something" affair, of course he couldn't say that it was the same. Sherlock had never given a thought to the color of the curtains and to the fact that the floor of the parlor was so cluttered with papers and stuff that you could hardly see which color the carpet was.

Everything was different except one thing, one little detail that was the only thing that linked his previous life with the present, and just because of that John could tell that he was the same person, despite all the changes: he never stopped visiting Sherlock's grave.

The first anniversary of Sherlock's death John spent it on the streets, hiding. Everyone knew that he wasn't completely alright and even Lestrade had called him with serious thoughts of lock him in a dungeon just to be sure that he wasn't going to do something stupid. But John showed them that, even when sometimes the sadness was too much to live with, he had no intentions of leaving this world anymore.

The third anniversary of Sherlock's death was a bit "cheerful" he spent it at Bart with Molly and Lestrade.  
The normal thing to do in those situations would have been going to a bar, drink something in the name of the companion who isn't there anymore and, even when he would have loved to go to Baker Street to continue recalling, laugh until cry and pass out behind the sofa as he had done a couple of times before. He couldn't do that anymore, though. Now he had other responsibilities.

The days with Mary passed by with the naturalness and happiness of a couple at the beginning of a new life together, with the small details that sometimes are huge moments of happiness, like when they discovered they liked the same movie or the same book or when Mary appeared all of a sudden to pick up John at the hospital or when the kids at the nursery jumped around him, laughing and asking him if he was a real-real soldier for real.

The day to day of a happy couple, but nothing worth to be conveyed in a blog.

Two years and a half passed. John and Mary got married in spring and all their friends were there. Even Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Sarah, Harriet and her new girlfriend.

Until finally the days came when the only moment in which John thought about Sherlock was at night, when he turned off the lights.

And in his dreams he always came back.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Leave a comment if you like it!  
I'll upload chapter two in a couple of days.

Cheers!

Liz.


End file.
